Red Sky at Morning
by sydedalus
Summary: Picks up where Failure to Communicate leaves off and takes a very big AU turn. If you’re familiar with my fic, it’ll be about what most of my fic is like. Chapter 4 rated M for sexual content. Chapter 5 is a clean version of chapter 4. FINISHED.
1. Red Sky at Morning

**Title:** Red Sky at Morning  
**Rating:** PG-13, TV-14, T; future chapter may be M  
**Spoilers:** "Failure to Communicate"  
**Summary:** Picks up where "Failure to Communicate" leaves off and takes a very big AU turn. If you're familiar with my fic, it'll be about what most of my fic is like. Rating subject to change as there will be sexual content.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**AN:** This will be a short fic. Four chapters at most. The latter chapters will probably contain sexual content. I'm not sure how explicit it will get yet, but this fic may be rated M very shortly. The objective is to examine House and Stacy's relationship as it is coming out of "Failure to Communicate." This is an AU fic, meaning I seriously doubt that what I'm going to write will be what happens between the two of them, but I got this idea and it won't stop bugging me, so I have to write it out. Wilson will drop out after the second chapter in all likelihood. No ducklings, no Cuddy. I don't expect that many people will like this fic. As someone who watches the show closely, I don't think this would ever happen on the show, hence the AU stamp. Nonetheless, I'm attempting to stay as close to character as I can. Also, I don't know anything about airline rules in the US right now, so whether they'd let Stacy take House's bag with her on the flight, I don't know, but it's important for plot purposes. I also don't know how House would've gotten back to Jersey either; what I've got here is, again, for plot purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Red Sky at Morning**

House sat in Terminal B outside the United gate, bouncing the pink rubber ball he'd acquired yesterday against the wall. The female member of an elderly couple sitting next to him gave him the evil eye for the fifth time in the last two minutes and he could tell the mother with the screaming baby sitting behind him was about to snap. He caught the ball and held it for a moment, just long enough for the woman next to him to hope he wouldn't throw it against the wall again. Ten seconds after she'd returned to her Sky Mall catalogue, he tossed the ball again, grinning slightly to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hand clench and wrinkle the magazine. Well, he mused, it was the aphasic malaria patient's fault for making him miss his flight—either that or the snow last night. His Nintendo DS was on that flight. How could he have predicted this turn of events? And if Wilson didn't show by the time he'd thrown the ball forty-seven more times, a certain oncologist was going to receive an angry phone call.

It was also Stacy's fault for not talking the airline out of throwing him off the flight. And it was completely wrong of her to claim his bag, leaving him with no Nintendo. He threw the ball with extra muscle. She would take his bag. _Greg, I know it's hard for you to carry and walk, I'll take it and drop it off for you tomorrow at work_. And how he'd read in her eyes, seductively, _unless you need it sooner…_

He threw the ball mercilessly, scorching the wall pink.

God. Kissing her last night. He hadn't kissed anyone and meant it since before the infarction. And she knew it. God. She knew it.

And if the kids hadn't called…if Cameron hadn't said just before he hung up…

Jesus. He didn't want to think about this. Where was Wilson?

He threw the ball again. Twelve. Dinner reservations. So self-defeating. Had he done it just to get her goat? Just to see how she would react?

He didn't mean it. He didn't want it. He hadn't actually believed she'd go to dinner with him. He wouldn't survive another round with her. But oh how he needed it. And he knew she was only doing this because she and Mark weren't sleeping together and she needed sex—he knew how she needed sex…he knew how he needed sex—but last night and this morning when she'd left, he'd really believed that she was sincere. No one who kissed like that was insincere. Not in the heat of the moment, anyway. But it was so easy to believe that she did want him back. That she did need him. She hadn't kissed him like that, with that much raw, aching, bleeding need since…since he couldn't recall when. And he needed her. But this would kill him. It couldn't happen. He was glad that it hadn't happened, but God, how he wished it had.

"I can't _believe_ I did this."

House caught the ball and grinned. "You should know by now just how irresistible you find me, Jimmy."

Wilson sighed one of those 'I can't believe he's done it again and I can't believe I'm helping him' sighs and said, "Come on. It's supposed to snow again this afternoon and I don't want to get stuck in it."

House heaved himself out of the chair. "You mean you don't want to spend a dark and stormy night trapped in a car with me? I'm wounded."

Wilson merely rolled his eyes and led House out of the terminal.


	2. Sailor Take Warning

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Sailor, Take Warning**

House was asleep before they were out of the city. With the seat as far back and down as it could go, his sprawling form stretched stem to stern in Wilson's four-door. He snored lightly.

Wilson glanced over at him and smiled a little to himself. The out-bound lanes had received lower priority than the in-bound lanes and he was stuck in traffic while last night's snow was being cleared away. He'd been lucky to make it to Baltimore in three hours. How long the trip back would take he didn't know. But he was _dying_ to know what had happened between House and Stacy last night. He knew something had happened: the timbre of House's bitching about Medicaid, airports, and snow storms hadn't been right. House was preoccupied. He wasn't gloating, so Wilson knew _that_ hadn't happened, but he wasn't complaining either. Whatever had happened, House had mixed feelings about it.

Wilson went over the events that led him to the conclusion that something had happened: Stacy was on an airplane—probably back home by now—with House's bag in her possession; House had used her phone all night (and still had it: Wilson had seen him slip it into his coat pocket); _she'd_ called him on House's behalf this morning and she'd sounded oddly coy and satisfied, despite the fact that the every time Wilson had seen the two of them together lately, they'd been fighting like cats and dogs—they hadn't even driven to the airport in Newark together; and House was reticent. Okay, House wasn't reticent, he was asleep, but he'd taken the time to mention a single hotel room and if _it_ had happened, he wouldn't have let sleep overtake him before taking time to gloat properly.

So what was it?

Wilson didn't know.

But, he mused as he tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel waiting for traffic to clear, he was damn sure going to find out.

* * *

"Hey," Wilson said in a nudging voice, "we're almost to Newark."

He heard House wake.

"Want to stop for coffee?"

He heard House blinking and orienting himself.

"No."

House flipped the seat up and Wilson heard the rattle he'd been expecting. His grip on the steering wheel tightened ever so slightly; he hated this. Couldn't ask if House felt up to driving himself home, couldn't volunteer to follow him, couldn't stop himself from worrying that House would wrap his car around a telephone pole if he drove right now. Wilson didn't mind seven hours in the car on a work day; _this_ was what bothered him.

Shouldn't even have asked about the coffee.

"_I'm_ gonna stop for coffee," he said and put on the turn signal.

"You can get some at the airport," House griped, "we're almost there."

"I need a bathroom break," Wilson lied.

House mumbled to himself and Wilson ignored him.

Twenty minutes later Wilson passed House a cup of coffee and a bag of peanuts before settling into his seat. They were back on the turnpike before either said anything.

"So what happened last night?" Wilson asked.

House looked blankly at him.

"You got a hotel room and…" Wilson prompted.

"_She_ got a hotel room," House corrected, "and nothing happened. My inept staff kept me up all night because they were too busy playing House to look at the patient's blood."

Wilson turned his head and narrowed an eye at House. "She's got your knapsack and you've got her phone," he said. "Something happened."

"Yeah, she went down on me in the men's room while the Ravens' left guard watched," House said. "I got his autograph. Wanna see?"

"She sounded very pleased with herself and you're avoiding the question," Wilson said. "Something happened."

"Did you know curry is addictive?"

Wilson's eyebrows furrowed. "No," he said slowly.

"She thinks it is," House said.

"I thought you were trapped in the airport all night," Wilson said. "Last time I was there, Baltimore Liberty didn't have an Indian restaurant."

House shrugged slightly and with only a fraction of suggestion in his voice said, "She got some curry."

"House," Wilson said with exasperation. "I want details. Concrete details."

"You're such a gossip," House said.

"I'm going to wring your neck if you don't give me details."

"With those scrawny little hands?"

"Were you two just discussing Indian food or were you kissing? necking? oral?"

"When did your mind become so dirty?"

"Intercourse?"

"You're going to miss the exit."

"House—"

"Seriously, you're going to miss the exit."

Wilson swerved just in time.

"Don't look at me like it's my fault," House said defensively.

"If you would just tell me," Wilson said.

House looked down. "I kissed her," he said after a moment. "She kissed me back. That was it."

"That was it?" Wilson said. "That wasn't it. C'mon. That wasn't it."

"Nothing else happened."

"You two have been acting like you just slept together," Wilson said.

"You'd know it if that happened," House mumbled.

"All right, I would," Wilson conceded. "But that's not all."

House sighed. "She wanted to," he said. "She would have…if Cameron hadn't called me."

"Cameron?"

"Foreman. Whatever."

Wilson took a moment to digest this information.

"So did you want to…?"

"I'm in lot C," House said.

Wilson turned and House pointed out his car.

"Are you going to answer me?" Wilson asked.

"What do you think?"

House got out and slammed the door before Wilson could say anything else.


	3. Red Sky at Night

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.

R.E.M.'s lyrics belong to them, not me.

**WARNING: **Before you read this, please be advised that **the next chapter will be** **rated M for explicit sexual content.** This chapter is still rated T. If you choose to read this chapter and don't like where you think it's going, **bail out now.** Because it's going there. House isn't going to realize in the middle of things that he's meant for someone else; it's going all the way there. If anything at all about House/Stacy bothers you, **please don't read any further.** This chapter and the chapter to follow are the reason I said in chapter 1 that I didn't think many people would like this fic. It's not going to be straight House/Stacy, no one's riding off into the sunset, and I don't think this would happen on the show, hence the AU tag, but it's more House/Stacy than House/anyone else, so please be advised. If you choose to read it and you don't like it, I can't be held responsible for your informed choice, so _please_ don't complain about something you chose to do.

In answer to a question a few people posed, yes, that part about Cameron was deliberate (and so is the part in this chapter) because I feel it's in keeping with canon. (I know, it's an AU fic that defies canon in its very inception, but blah, I'm not interested in arguing about canon/AU. It's there because I wanted to put it there.) Read into it what you will; it's not going any further than these two or three brief mentions.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Red Sky at Night**

_Keys cut, three for the price of one  
Nothing's free but guaranteed for a lifetime's use  
I've changed the locks  
And you can't have one_

_Hey love, look into your glovebox heart  
What is there for me inside? This love is tired  
I've changed the locks. Have I misplaced you?_

_Have we lost our minds?  
Will this never end?_

_It could depend on your take_

_You, me, we used to be on fire  
If keys are all that stand between,  
Can I throw in the ring?  
No gasoline  
Just fuck me kitten  
_

_You are wild and I'm in your possession  
Nothing's free, so, fuck me kitten_

_I'm in your possession  
So, fuck me kitten_

—R.E.M. "Star Me Kitten"

House stared at the ceiling.

He'd been ready to drop when he finally got home just after lunch. Driving on icy roads without shaking out the stiffness of a few hours' sleep in Wilson's car hadn't been the best medicine for an appendage that hated cold weather and long periods of stillness. Instead he'd swallowed another Vicodin and sat down at the piano. Emotions took it out of him worse than any stretch on his feet.

He'd noodled for a long time. Something from Beethoven's uber-depressed period into a sarcastic vaudeville melody into a dissonant repetition that would've made even Philip Glass scratch his eyes out into a jaunty five finger exercise into a light Chopin into a blues melody that evolved into a jazz improvisation and ending on an off-key "All You Need is Love" with a few Beethovian minor chords to close the piece.

Strange. He hadn't touched the instrument for more than five minutes since the night Cameron quit.

In a way, he longed for the black and white keys to shed their meaning of notes, scales, chords, modes, styles, histories, and feelings and become only what they appeared to be: black and white keys. He couldn't remember a time when he'd seen only black and white keys. But he could remember when the pedals were just pedals and he didn't structure his phrases according to how long he could press down on the right-most pedal.

He'd gotten up, feeling lighter, scrounged some cold pizza and settled down to watch whatever sporting event presented itself. An old rugby match on the Sports International channel: better than he'd expected. Ice skating had followed and he'd quickly changed the channel. _The Wizard of Oz_. Then the local news had come on and leaked into a rerun of Becker. By then, his attention was fixed on the ceiling.

A Vicodin after the rugby match and another before the local news, in addition to a lengthy sojourn on his back with his leg properly supported, had calmed him. He was nearly asleep, comfortable with his mood elevated slightly by hydrocodone, when someone knocked clearly and distinctly on his door.

Of course he knew who it was. Her cell phone was waiting on the coffee table next to him. Of course she'd be back.

He turned the television off, got up slowly, and limped to the door without bothering with his cane. Didn't need it. Not for this. Though what he was expecting exactly, he couldn't say.

"Hi…Stacy…come in."

She entered in a slow yet self-confident manner, coat folded over her locked arms.

She took in the living room in one sweep.

"Nice place," she said casually.

It smelled so much like him, his spicy, tangy scent. It drove her wild.

House watched her silently: he'd seen that. She was willing to let herself get in deep tonight.

Their eyes met and they exchanged a quick conversation: 'would she be staying long?' 'yes, she would' 'that was fine but he wouldn't be taking her coat' 'touché.'

"You got your cross back," House noticed.

His expression became just barely distasteful, his tone just barely bitter. He thought he hid the contempt well.

"All better?"

But of course she'd seen it.

"I didn't come over here to talk about Mark," she said.

But she didn't step forward or unfold her arms yet.

House was silent, waiting for a real answer.

Stacy sighed, shoulders drooping. "Silent treatment."

The corner of House's mouth quirked with the brief smile that sometimes accompanies memory.

"Old favorite," he said.

"I never knew you'd be so good at it," she said.

And now she stepped forward. Now she unfolded her arms. Now she put her coat down. Where? It didn't matter where.

House didn't move.

She offered him the knapsack. "Trade you."

He said nothing, taking the two steps to the coffee table to retrieve her phone and two steps back. He offered it wordlessly.

"Did I get any calls?" Stacy asked as she took the phone.

Her voice was nervous. She was nervous. She was making conversation. And she was expecting something. They were lovers again, right now, in this time and place. Would it last? Did she want it to last? Did he want it to? All of these questions pooled in his eyes. He didn't know how else to ask them.

The taste of her on his lips last night. Her hands on his chest, around his shoulders, pulling him closer. God yes he wanted it.

But still he said nothing.

"Are you going to give me the tour or do I have to wander around unguided?" she asked, again nervous, but this time predatory too.

_Are we going to do this?_ her eyes asked. _I want to_. _Show me where you sleep now. I'm ready._

He answered with his body, limping toward the kitchen.

"Messy as always," she said. Smiling, with that knowing, predatory smile, she said that when in fact his kitchen was clean—no, not clean. It was empty.

She turned to face him, God she was so close again, and pushed him gently against the refrigerator, her body against his now, close, thigh grinding gently against his groin, and kissed him like she meant it. He kissed back, pushing against her. Weight. Counterweight. She was serious. Was he serious? He was serious right now about kissing her back.

They found a rough, needy rhythm and then came to a mutual stop. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction and anticipation: she had him. He shuddered. He loved it when she was aggressive.

She stepped back. _Shall we continue?_

_The tour?_

_Of course_.

_Sure_.

He ducked out of the kitchen down the hall and flipped a throwaway gesture toward the bathroom, going toward his spare room. She stopped following him and went into the bathroom, turning the light on and inspecting it.

She leaned against the doorframe while he watched her.

"You know, I was a little surprised when I found out you sent your underlings to Short Hills instead of going yourself," she said.

He was silent for a moment. He put a hand out to the wall to steady himself while he stood.

"No you weren't," he retorted. He searched her face, her eyes. "They loved the cookies, by the way."

"They didn't share?" she asked casually with just a little pout on his behalf.

"I don't normally eat things that come out of Chase's pocket."

There was laughter in her smile.

"You _have_ changed," she observed.

She left the light on and walked past the door to the spare room and past him, interested in what was at the end of the hall.

The sway of her hips as she glided past him. He had no questions now.

She paused at the door, taking in the room.

"When did you become neat?" she asked, her tone not a little disparaging, but it was part of an old pattern.

"When tripping over something became an issue," he said, shouldering past her.

He sat down on the bed, feeling somewhat naked because he'd left his cane in the living room. He knew he wouldn't need it…but what if he did?

She sat next to him on the bed and turned his face toward her for a kiss. It was gentle, lingering, loving. There was no hurry. It was going to happen but they had all night to enjoy it. No need to rush.

They parted, inches away from each other. Her hand was still on his cheek.

"I haven't slept," he said.

"You never sleep," she countered.

He inclined his head; she was right.

She stood up and offered him her hand. He took it and she pulled him in for a serious kiss.

Long, luxurious—he hadn't made out with anyone since the last time he made out with her. It was the same but it was also different. He felt her doing things that were foreign to him for the first minute; things she'd learned _he_ liked. Him. Mark. Not him, Greg.

He didn't have any foreign tricks for her and soon she remembered everything he wanted and he was living in the moment furiously, passionately, for once not worrying about the next moment to come. But that wasn't who he was. Not now. Not then.

"Wait," he said breathlessly, pulling away until only their foreheads were touching, looking down at her, her looking up at him. "I'm a little drunk."

Stacy smiled the drunk smile of sexual satiation. "You weren't last night," she pointed out.

She leaned in to kiss him again and he kissed back because it was so good to kiss back.

He pulled away again. "But I am now."

It was a lie, but he needed it to be out there before he went any further.

"You never let that stop you before," Stacy said.

She kissed him again, and he kissed back, but then she felt him hesitate.

"Greg, I know you want this," she said. She kissed him quickly and looked up. "Just…let it happen."

He searched her eyes and face again. All he saw reflected back was himself: raw need for him and only him. And he could see his own reflection in her eyes: he was flushed, he was serious, he was committed. _Let it happen_, her eyes told him. _Let it happen because you want it to happen_.

And she was right. He did want it to happen.

They kissed again, seriously, voraciously, and her hands were off of him and busy unbuttoning her blouse. He took the cue and worked on getting his own shirt off.

No questions now as their mouths met hungrily, hands everywhere like two horny teenagers. This was happening. This was happening right now.


	4. Sailor's Delight

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.

**CONTENT WARNING:** This chapter is **rated M** **for explicit sexual content** and some language. Please don't read this if you're underage or bothered by explicit sexual content or language. I can't stress that enough. This isn't a chapter you can skim to avoid the explicit content—you simply can't, so please don't read it. It's not as explicit as it could have been, but it's still **_extremely explicit_**. I can't be held responsible for people who dislike explicit sexual content and still choose to read this chapter.

**CHAPTER 5 IS A CLEAN VERSION OF THIS CHAPTER**. If you are underage or otherwise bothered by explicit content, please go to chapter 5 now. Chapter 5 contains everything here except the explicit sexual content.

This chapter also contains the adult theme of sexual dysfunction. If that bothers you, please don't read this chapter.

The only two characters in this chapter are House and Stacy. If you don't like read about House being with Stacy, please don't read this chapter.

This chapter is the reason I said in the first author's note that I didn't think many people would like this fic. As I said in the last chapter, House doesn't decide in the middle of things that he'd rather be with Cameron or Wilson or Cuddy. And while this isn't a House/Stacy fic per se, it's more House/Stacy than House/anyone else. I don't personally believe this could happen on the show; that's why I tagged this AU. But it's something I wanted to write, so here it is.

**If you have even the slightest inkling that you won't like this chapter for any reason at all, please don't read it. **I'd rather you didn't read it than get complaints about it not being a ship of your liking. I didn't write it to convince anyone that this is the way things should be on the show; this isn't the way I want things to be or think things should be. It was merely something I wanted to explore.

Finally, I'm not male. Everything I know about male sexual function and dysfunction comes from personal experience and general knowledge. I did not research this chapter in any way. I'm not trying to "get it right." I don't have a theory or an explanation for why things happen the way they do in this chapter. I left it deliberately vague. Human sexuality is so much more complicated than I could ever explain, hence I make no attempt.

**Again, this chapter is rated mature. It contains explicit sexual content and portrays an unpopular relationship. If you're skeptical, don't read it. I'm serious. Don't read it.**

* * *

**Chapter 4: Sailor's Delight**

Playboy: House is described as the thinking woman's sex symbol. But really, why would anyone want to sleep with this guy or spend any time with him afterward? Can a damaged man be fixed?  
Laurie: That's an interesting question, but it's not the same as asking if a damaged man can be fixed by women having sex with him. Repeatedly. Why would they make that leap? I don't get it myself.

—20 Questions with Hugh Laurie, _Playboy_, Jan. 11, 2006

_Sometimes you don't want to love the person you love  
__you turn your face away from that face  
__whose eyes lips might make you give up anger  
__forget insult steal sadness of not wanting  
__to love turn away then turn away at breakfast  
__in the evening don't lift your eyes from the paper  
__to see that face in all its seriousness a  
__sweetness of concentration he holds his book  
__in his hand the hard-knuckled winter wood—  
__scarred fingers turn away that's all you can  
__do old as you are to save yourself from love_

—Grace Paley, "Anti-Love Poem" _New Yorker_ Dec. 12, 2005 p. 64

"Greg," she said through a shudder, "stop."

Reluctantly he did, lifting his head to look at her, but he couldn't stop himself from idly kissing her inner thigh. _What?_ his eyes said.

"I want you to fuck me," Stacy said. It was seductive, the way 'fuck' came out of her mouth, violently asking for violence, but gentle also.

He gazed at her and began nibbling her thigh, his left forefinger replacing his tongue, shoving with the violence she'd requested. Then another finger joined the first one, and another, and the rhythm quickened though it was still languid, and the force increased, and he didn't take his eyes off of her, and she was loving it. He watched her head go back again, the length of her neck as it arched, how utterly helpless and vulnerable she was as she came again, unable to stop it. He slowed, giving just enough force to intensify the afterglow, then took his fingers back, trailing them up her thigh to his nose so he could inhale the intoxicating scent. He shifted his weight, wanting to taste one more time.

He had just started lapping when she came down enough to say "Stop."

He did, looking up at her again as she raised her head to look down at him.

"I want you to _fuck_ me," she said, this time with more emphasis, more violence, more need.

He said nothing, not breaking eye contact as he got up on his left knee and shoved his pants down. Stacy sat up and moved so he could sit and work his jeans to his ankles. She pulled them the rest of the way off and then lay down on her right side to kiss him.

She'd seen that he wasn't ready yet. Kissing was one way to get him there and she did it happily, lovingly, savoring the scratch of his stubble and his soft lips and tongue.

When she felt like it was time, she leaned across the bed for her purse and retrieved a condom.

House watched her—the very action of her producing a rubber, the premeditation of it, excited him—but he still wasn't there. He turned onto his back and tried to relax and let his senses take over while he stroked himself.

Now she watched him and, smiling seductively, tossed the condom aside and started touching herself, remembering what he liked to see. She made the noises he liked to hear and saw him respond. She enjoyed this, driving him wild. What he was doing drove her wild too.

After a little while, she bent down and took him in her mouth, not yet impatient because she enjoyed this also.

He closed his eyes and savored the sensation. He always enjoyed it no matter who was giving, but Stacy knew what he liked and was more willing to deliver than anyone else he'd ever been with—they'd spent too much time together not to be experts in each other's sexual habits and preferences—and he could tell by the pace at which she was hitting his favorite points that she was ready for this to happen now. And he didn't worry yet that he was still only half-hard because he couldn't worry when she was doing what she was doing. The kernel of anxiety was still there, though, waiting.

He wanted to. It wasn't a question of want. It was that sometimes he just couldn't make it happen.

When he was younger, the cause was too much masturbation or performance anxiety or too much alcohol or those rare occasions when it just didn't happen for reasons he couldn't discern, and there had been times during his relationship with her that for one reason or another he couldn't make it happen, but that was why he'd gotten good at oral—especially with Stacy. He knew what she liked and wanted and needed and when to give it as well as she knew what he liked and wanted and needed, and she was proving right now that she'd forgotten as much as he had: nothing.

She was speeding up and he was fighting harder than he'd fought in a long time not to give in, and he must have made some indication because suddenly her weight shifted and he heard the quiet tear of foil.

He still wasn't there—two-thirds of the way at most—but she'd done everything she could and they both knew this was as good as it was going to get unless whatever was holding him back gave way. The introduction of latex never helped a situation like this but he wasn't going to argue. He concentrated on maintaining what he had.

She was quick—he had to give her that, but then he knew she was quick: how many times had they only had a few moments in some indiscreet location?—and she was an expert, making sure the tip was deflated to prevent breakage. The final touch she gave him helped, in just the right place, but he wasn't…

He kept his eyes closed, trying harder than he'd ever tried to make this work, as he felt her trying also to make it work but being gentle. He pictured flipping her over and pounding into her until he was covered with sweat and his chest was tight and she was screaming, but the latex. The latex. He couldn't feel anything through it except heat.

Finally he opened his eyes, sensing she was about to give up the struggle.

"Maybe in another position?" she suggested.

He could see her trying not to let on how disappointed she was. He tried not to let on that he knew. But he knew that she knew he knew she was trying not to let on. Too much history stood between them.

He rolled onto his left side and got to his knees while she moved quickly to the right place, doing her best not to throw off his balance. He was ready; she was ready; but he was an earthworm.

He tried every trick he knew—tried them all twice. Three times. Four.

"Lose the condom," he heard her say.

"You sure?"

She turned around, peeled it off, and took him in her mouth again so quickly he was actually startled and had to grab her shoulder for support. Just as quickly her fingers were finding their way into the right spot. Prostate. He gasped.

"I'm gonna come if you keep doing that," he said raggedly. He felt her ease off.

But she was still doing it and it was working better than anything else had so far, and he was in heaven.

"You're sure…you want to do this…without a condom?" he got out after a while. Picturing the infections he could pick up was the only way he was keeping things together right now.

The slap he received on the ass answered that question.

Then she was pulling away and getting into position again and he shoved into her as soon as the mechanics were right, hoping he could stay like this long enough to satisfy her—and himself, because so much of his satisfaction depended on hers.

He tried to get a good rhythm going and felt her trying, but he could already feel himself softening. This was so good, it felt so good, but it wasn't working. He tried to give her what she wanted, pushing as hard as he could, and he heard her beginning to feel it, the quickened breaths and little gasps, and he thought it might work when he fell out.

He felt her patience as he quickly repositioned himself, but when he tried to push in the resistance was too great. He was too soft again.

He tried his tricks again and she tried hers, both watching each other, and they both looked down as he attempted to make it happen. Earthworm.

She sat up and was reaching for him again when he leaned to his left and sat down, palms flat on the bed to hold himself up, breathing hard and sweating, but from the wrong kind of exertion.

"I can't," he said. He didn't look at her.

"Yes, you can," she said.

He felt her eyes on him.

"Greg. Look at me."

He glanced over briefly before letting himself fall back.

"No," he said, eyes on the ceiling, "I can't." He rubbed his flaccid penis once, glanced at her as she lay down on her side next to him, and said again to the ceiling, "I can't."

"Not even if I do this?" she said coyly and reached for the area that had gotten him hard earlier.

"Don't."

Her hand paused in midair and she looked at him questioningly.

His gaze flickered to hers momentarily. "I can't," he said again.

"Can't?" she asked, "or won't?" And her hand began moving again as she leaned down to kiss him.

"Stop!" He twisted the upper half of his body away and she recoiled.

Her hand fell on his chest as she drooped on the mattress in frustration.

"Why not?" she asked, voice muffled by the comforter.

He didn't answer.

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him.

"You never had any problems before," she said. "Even after your surgery."

"Yes, I did," he said. "You just don't remember."

But she did remember. "Is it still easier in the morning?" she asked.

He waited, breathing in and out, remembering. "Yeah," he said after a while. He glanced over at her. "But even then…sometimes…"

She smiled a small wry smile. "I'd ask if you'd tried Viagra but I know you."

House said nothing for a moment. Her hand was still on his chest, playing with the hair there. He hadn't had so much intimate physical contact in a long time. It felt great. He didn't want it to end.

"It's…uncomfortable," he said after a while.

If she was surprised at his admission, she didn't show it.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and her hand fell away.

"Look," he said, "if you just want me back for sex, I don't think it's going to work."

She searched his face. "I don't," she said. She studied him, gauging his reaction. "I miss more than just the sex."

He sat up and stood as quickly as he could, awkwardly bending to retrieve his underwear.

"Either way," he said, "I don't think this is going to work."

She sat up too now and watched him wriggle into his briefs.

"Do you know why I came over here tonight?" she said.

He glanced at her as if she'd asked the most obvious question in the world.

"Other than to sleep with you," she clarified.

He refused to look up but she knew he was listening.

"When…I saw you again for the first time…a few months ago…you were just like I remembered you being before your leg…happened." She paused, thinking, watching him pull a shirt over his head. "You were…just as funny…and irritating…and cocky…as you were when I met you. And even more sexy."

She smiled warmly to herself at the recent memory and how good it felt to say these words.

He'd stopped dressing. He turned to look at her, one hand on his night table to keep himself steady.

"And over the past few months…you've become even more the way I remembered you." She smiled again, looking down for a moment. "You're a nuisance. You're a pest. You're more reprehensible now—" she looked up at him again, "stealing my file, I still can't believe you did that, but God, it's so _you_."

He had that stunned look on his face she'd seen so often recently.

"Part of the reason I left—a lot of the reason probably—was that you weren't yourself anymore. You had become someone else—someone miserable and mean…and irritable and bitter—but now you're back." Directly she looked at him, explaining and beseeching, asking him to understand. "That's why I came over. I missed _you_." She looked down again. "It took me a long time to stop fighting it."

House was silent for a moment, his eyes turned to the floor, taking in what she'd just told him.

Then he looked up at her—directly; almost fiercely.

"What makes you think I wanted you back for any reason other than that I couldn't have you?"

She slid to the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Because I know you," she said.

She moved closer to him so that their bodies were almost touching.

"I know what you want," she said.

He could feel her breath on his shoulder through his t-shirt and he was very much aware that she was naked and he was half-dressed. The sight of her and her proximity; it still did things for him even if he couldn't go all the way right now.

"I'm still miserable and mean and irritable and bitter," he said. "More now than I was then."

She put her arms around his shoulders. "I've grown a harder shell," she said and leaned in to kiss him.

He kissed back, tentatively, before breaking it. "You can't just leave Mark," he said.

"You don't give a damn about Mark," she said.

"I don't want someone else to go through what I went through."

"That's a lie," she said.

He stared into her eyes for a long time.

It was a lie. They both knew it.

Then he said, "I don't want to go through it again," and took a step away from her.

She let him go. "I don't believe that," she said evenly.

He limped to his dresser and found a pair of pajama bottoms.

"I can't," he said, not looking at her.

He limped back to the bed and sat down to put them on.

Stacy slipped into her blouse and panties quickly, then sat next to him while he struggled.

She caressed the back of his neck. "I still love you," she said.

House got the bottoms over his right leg and leaned to the left in a quick motion to get them over his hips. "I know," he said.

She sat next to him for a moment longer while he tied the string. Then she got up and finished dressing quickly. He sat and watched her. The scene was so domestic. He was tempted to ask her to throw him a pair of socks and his Vicodin like they were living together again. It felt so much like home.

She leaned down to kiss him. "I'll see you tomorrow at work," she said. She kissed him again: the quick, familiar goodbye kiss of long-time lovers.

He heard her let herself out and fell back on the bed again, eyes on the ceiling.

The apartment was silent and fully lit: a home with no one in it. He was utterly alone.

But strangely enough, he thought as he closed his eyes and recalled the taste of her on his tongue and lips, he felt good.

Yes.

He felt good.

END


	5. Sailor's Delight clean version

Summary, disclaimer, etc. in Chapter 1.

This is a clean version of chapter 4. It contains the same adult themes of sexual dysfunction but it is not explicit. It is, however, suggestive in a few places at the beginning. Please be aware of that. The suggestion is T-rated.

To anyone who read chapter 4, this is all the same stuff except for the opening paragraph and a few minor changes in other places. Nothing new.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Sailor's Delight (clean version)**

Playboy: House is described as the thinking woman's sex symbol. But really, why would anyone want to sleep with this guy or spend any time with him afterward? Can a damaged man be fixed?  
Laurie: That's an interesting question, but it's not the same as asking if a damaged man can be fixed by women having sex with him. Repeatedly. Why would they make that leap? I don't get it myself.

—20 Questions with Hugh Laurie, _Playboy_, Jan. 11, 2006

_Sometimes you don't want to love the person you love  
you turn your face away from that face  
whose eyes lips might make you give up anger  
forget insult steal sadness of not wanting  
to love turn away then turn away at breakfast  
in the evening don't lift your eyes from the paper  
to see that face in all its seriousness a  
sweetness of concentration he holds his book  
in his hand the hard-knuckled winter wood—  
scarred fingers turn away that's all you can  
do old as you are to save yourself from love_

—Grace Paley, "Anti-Love Poem" _New Yorker_ Dec. 12, 2005 p. 64

He did know how to make her happy in this way if not in others. But she wanted something more from him. He tried everything he knew; she tried everything she knew. For all their efforts, it wasn't happening. This wasn't going to be the marathon of love making they both wanted. Neither was at fault.

Trying again, trying desperately, she sat up and was reaching for him when he leaned to his left and sat down, palms flat on the bed to hold himself up.

"I can't," he said. He didn't look at her.

"Yes, you can," she said.

He felt her eyes on him.

"Greg. Look at me."

He glanced over briefly before letting himself fall back.

"No," he said, eyes on the ceiling, "I can't." He rubbed his chest, glanced at her as she lay down on her side next to him, and said again to the ceiling, "I can't."

"Not even if I do this?" she said coyly and reached for a special area.

"Don't."

Her hand paused in midair and she looked at him questioningly.

His gaze flickered to hers momentarily. "I can't," he said again.

"Can't?" she asked, "or won't?" And her hand began moving again as she leaned down to kiss him.

"Stop!" He twisted the upper half of his body away and she recoiled.

Her hand fell on his chest as she drooped on the mattress in frustration.

"Why not?" she asked, voice muffled by the comforter.

He didn't answer.

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him.

"You never had any problems before," she said. "Even after your surgery."

"Yes, I did," he said. "You just don't remember."

But she did remember. "Is it still easier in the morning?" she asked.

He waited, breathing in and out, remembering. "Yeah," he said after a while. He glanced over at her. "But even then…sometimes…"

She smiled a small wry smile. "I'd ask if you'd tried Viagra but I know you."

House said nothing for a moment. Her hand was still on his chest, playing with the hair there. He hadn't had so much intimate physical contact in a long time. It felt great. He didn't want it to end.

"It's…uncomfortable," he said after a while.

If she was surprised at his admission, she didn't show it.

He pushed himself up on his elbows and her hand fell away.

"Look," he said, "if you just want me back for sex, I don't think it's going to work."

She searched his face. "I don't," she said. She studied him, gauging his reaction. "I miss more than just the sex."

He sat up and stood as quickly as he could, awkwardly bending to retrieve his underwear.

"Either way," he said, "I don't think this is going to work."

She sat up too now and watched him wriggle into his briefs.

"Do you know why I came over here tonight?" she said.

He glanced at her as if she'd asked the most obvious question in the world.

"Other than to sleep with you," she clarified.

He refused to look up but she knew he was listening.

"When…I saw you again for the first time…a few months ago…you were just like I remembered you being before your leg…happened." She paused, thinking, watching him pull a shirt over his head. "You were…just as funny…and irritating…and cocky…as you were when I met you. And even more sexy."

She smiled warmly to herself at the recent memory and how good it felt to say these words.

He'd stopped dressing. He turned to look at her, one hand on his night table to keep himself steady.

"And over the past few months…you've become even more the way I remembered you." She smiled again, looking down for a moment. "You're a nuisance. You're a pest. You're more reprehensible now—" she looked up at him again, "stealing my file, I still can't believe you did that, but God, it's so _you_."

He had that stunned look on his face she'd seen so often recently.

"Part of the reason I left—a lot of the reason probably—was that you weren't yourself anymore. You had become someone else—someone miserable and mean…and irritable and bitter—but now you're back." Directly she looked at him, explaining and beseeching, asking him to understand. "That's why I came over. I missed _you_." She looked down again. "It took me a long time to stop fighting it."

House was silent for a moment, his eyes turned to the floor, taking in what she'd just told him.

Then he looked up at her—directly; almost fiercely.

"What makes you think I wanted you back for any reason other than that I couldn't have you?"

She slid to the edge of the bed and stood up.

"Because I know you," she said.

She moved closer to him so that their bodies were almost touching.

"I know what you want," she said.

He could feel her breath on his shoulder through his t-shirt and he was very much aware that she was naked and he was half-dressed. The sight of her and her proximity; it still did things for him even if he couldn't go all the way right now.

"I'm still miserable and mean and irritable and bitter," he said. "More now than I was then."

She put her arms around his shoulders. "I've grown a harder shell," she said and leaned in to kiss him.

He kissed back, tentatively, before breaking it. "You can't just leave Mark," he said.

"You don't give a damn about Mark," she said.

"I don't want someone else to go through what I went through."

"That's a lie," she said.

He stared into her eyes for a long time.

It was a lie. They both knew it.

Then he said, "I don't want to go through it again," and took a step away from her.

She let him go. "I don't believe that," she said evenly.

He limped to his dresser and found a pair of pajama bottoms.

"I can't," he said, not looking at her.

He limped back to the bed and sat down to put them on.

Stacy slipped into her blouse and panties quickly, then sat next to him while he struggled.

She caressed the back of his neck. "I still love you," she said.

House got the bottoms over his right leg and leaned to the left in a quick motion to get them over his hips. "I know," he said.

She sat next to him for a moment longer while he tied the string. Then she got up and finished dressing quickly. He sat and watched her. The scene was so domestic. He was tempted to ask her to throw him a pair of socks and his Vicodin like they were living together again. It felt so much like home.

She leaned down to kiss him. "I'll see you tomorrow at work," she said. She kissed him again: the quick, familiar goodbye kiss of long-time lovers.

He heard her let herself out and fell back on the bed again, eyes on the ceiling.

The apartment was silent and fully lit: a home with no one in it. He was utterly alone.

But strangely enough, he thought as he closed his eyes and recalled the taste of her on his tongue and lips, he felt good.

Yes.

He felt good.

END


End file.
